


remorse

by MyComicalRomance



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Beta Read, Overthinking, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24278827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyComicalRomance/pseuds/MyComicalRomance
Summary: It is all his fault many of his soldiers are dead, so he mourns them in the privacy of his quarters.
Kudos: 5





	remorse

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this doesn't make any sense, I'm still not used to writing stuff for my own pleasure. This was not beta-read, so any mistake is on me.

A tall, old bot stood in front of his reflection on the mirror. Tired, blue optics staring at anything but his frame, roaming over the scratched floor where his pedes laid, looking at the boring gray and brown of the rusty and worn walls. 

Processor deep in thought, yet empty as a whole, feelings flying around, a commotion rapidly building up in his head.

It was not unusual for him to get this reoccurring hollow sensation, at this point he was already used to it, as he no longer feared the moment his guard would crash down, but rather, just expected it nonchalantly. Though, it did not matter he already had gone through it several times, it still did not come down as a pleasant experience.

His vents hitched and his optics started stinging, his blue servos were beginning to tremble, he absently clutched them.

When he finally looked at his reflection, as usual his serious and stoic façade was still aboard, even if deep down at his core he felt a thousand hands pulling him down, threatening by mere willpower to break him down… His face still displayed a wise, strong bot, as if subconsciously thinking there was an audience behind him whom he needed to show strength.

But he was alone in his quarters, and there was none.

To the pit with formalities.

* * *

His servos rapidly grabbed the sink in front of him as his legs gave out, not even worried about breaking it –though he did hear a crack as he did so–, he put his weight on it, as it was the only thing supporting him from completely falling to the ground. He clenched his denta and let the coolant that had gathered around his optics and threatened to come out, stream freely down his face, his vents hiccupped, and his vocalizer spat static…

And then, his conscience flew to the dark places where _remorse_ was most present deep down at his spark. So, he let his mind wander, knowing that fighting it would only make everything worse.

And found himself remembering his fellow soldiers.

Specially, his _fallen_ soldiers whom had perished in the midst of this gruesome, never-ending war. Those he had once sent on missions, or that were frontliners and did not get the chance to return back to base.

His spark clenched and a sob escaped his vocalizer.

That look he received every time another of his own fell…It never ceased to leave the most horrifying feeling at the pit of his tanks. Not when, with a broken voice and dimmed optics, they struggled to tell him ‘They were intercepted by a Decepticon squad and got gruesomely shot at.’, followed by those Primus-damned words, ‘There were no survivors.’.

No matter how many times he would be told that there was nothing to be done, he knew there always was, he just so happened to choose the wrong path and by his mistake, bots paid with their sparks. It was his responsibility to assure the safety of every single one of them! Yet many were going offline every klick… And here he was, being pathetic in his lonely quarters, without being able to protect them.

His façade would always shine at these moments, though his brows would furrow he would barely let his deep baritone voice crack, or his blue servos tremble in anxiety. He would steel himself and nod, clasp their shoulder and murmur condolences, perhaps hug them if they so required it.

Because they needed someone to cling into, someone that would bring light to their shadow covered mess of a world, someone that would tell them ‘It’s going to be okay. We’re going to resurface stronger as ever… For those who couldn’t.” and managed to stay strong. People looked him up, and he felt obliged to comply. His soldiers needed a leader, not another heavy cargo on their shoulders, he was supposed to do the heavy lifting!

He just wished someone would do that for him too.

His servo slowly left the dented sink, and absently clutched at his chestplates. He shuttered his coolant covered optics.

But sometimes, the pain became too much, almost unbearable. Oh, the amount of losses, the offlined life forces… And as a Commander, it was all his fault. It was all his fault they would never come back to see their friends and loved ones again!

He was silently glad he could let these displays of weakness out of his systems in the privacy of his quarters, where no one could reach him out for a few hours. He took a deep breath, allowing the air to circle through his frame, the chill cooling off his overheating processor and hugged himself, yearning for, ironically, a warmth he knew no one could fully provide.

And just as he stood up and was about to recharge his sorrows for the last remaining of the cycle, his internal HUD flashed, alerting him of an incoming comm. call. He sighed, thinking he had spoken too soon, he cleared his throat and quickly wiped out the remaining tears from his face, looked himself on the mirror and when he found no revealing proof of what he had been doing, went to his desk and took the call.

After all, there still was work to do.


End file.
